


Sources

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nicotine Patches, Post-The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At this rate, he will be out of patches in two days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sources

Sherlock places another patch beneath the first two, inhaling sharply through his nose. He steeples his fingers, pressing them against his upper lip, and he takes slow breaths, deep ones, because hyperventilating will just lead to unconsciousness.

 _“I will burn the_ heart _out of you.”_

_“I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.”_

_“But we both know that’s not quite true.”_

It hurts to swallow.

(John’s face, the bomb, no _no_ no, not John, must save him, don’t be stupid, prepared to sacrifice, John, no, _save him Sherlock_.)

“Good morning, Sherlock,” and his eyes snap open, fixing John with a stare that is probably less than friendly ( _“reliably informed—”_ ).

“Or. Not then. All right?” John asks as he walks toward the kitchen (he hasn’t slept well, probably the same reason Sherlock is on the patch without a case).

“I’m fine,” but his voice is scratchier than he wants it to be ( _“that I don’t have—_ ”). John looks at him a moment, and the swelling that has been going on for the past week bursts within him, scattering little pieces around his insides. He stands, pulling on his coat and winding his scarf around his neck.

“Where are you going?” John sits down in his chair with a cup of tea ( _a heart_ ).

“Out,” Sherlock replies, slapping another nicotine patch on his other forearm on his way out the door.

-

He presses his forehead against the top of the concrete wall separating the Thames from London ( _this concrete will have to be redone, acid rain is pockmarking it, not to mention the cracks that are running down the sides of the structure_ ).

Sherlock rips off one patch and reapplies another. At this rate, he’ll be out of patches in two days. Probably less.

 _“But we both know that’s not quite true._ ”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, replaying the scene, reliving those things people call _feelings_ (he’s never been good with them, tries to make himself not have them).

_“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”_

“Perhaps you need to check your sources.”

“ _Jesus_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock’s spine stiffens, his muscles tightening, but he doesn’t lift his forehead from the wall. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid, Sherlock, it doesn’t suit either of us very well.”

Sherlock snorts, slowly bringing his head up ( _John in danger, in danger, save him Sherlock_ ).

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“The army doctor was wondering if I knew what you were up to.”

 _John._ “Ah.”

“Four patches?”

“Five.” Wait, no— “why?”

“Your pupils are blown wide open.” Mycroft leans on his umbrella, gazing out across the Thames, his silence saying more than he ever manages to say with words. “It would be in your best interest to head home now, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock doesn’t feel like arguing right now. “If people see us associating in public, they might talk.”

Mycroft shrugs, walking back to the black car on the curb, “they do little else.”

Flashback, again (he doesn’t think he’s ever had quite this many against his will).

“Thank you, Mycroft.” The words feel sour. But necessary. “For coming out here.”

The only acknowledgment Sherlock receives that it was an appreciated gesture is the tightening of Mycroft’s hand on the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock strips off one patch and replaces it with another from his pocket as he walks back to Baker Street.

 _“I’ve been reliably informed—_ ”

-

“Good God, Sherlock, you scared the living daylights out of me.” John’s angry face and tense posture is a welcome sight, a focal point. “What if Moriarty had gotten you? Also,” his voice lowers in an exasperated fashion, “what are all these patch wrappers doing lying around? You don’t even have a _case_.”

Sherlock drapes his coat over the back of his chair, dropping his scarf on top of it.

“I needed to think.”

“It’s un _healthy_.”

“So is caffeine. And chasing madmen around London.” Sherlock plops down on the sofa, making sure his sleeves are rolled down because if John had actually seen all the patches…

“Point,” John runs a hand down his face, but continuing to pace. He doesn’t seem to have relaxed at all.

“John,” Sherlock says, blinking at him.

“Mm.”

“I have one,” his voice trembles (it’s the patches, it has to be). “I do.”

John stops pacing, an instant change in posture and demeanor. And he shuffles over to Sherlock, holding his hand out in the space between them. John’s steady trigger hand shivers just slightly (and Sherlock knows that John hasn’t been going through his patches).

“I know.” ( _“Perhaps you need to check your sources.”_ ) “I know, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tentatively takes John’s hand, tugging him down onto the sofa with him.


End file.
